by Mike Morris
"Legionnaire!" shouted a man next to him but he too backed away from Rane. Others nearby were reluctant to take up the cry but still it carried further out from the square. The crowd ebbed and flowed around him as others pushed forward, minds full of gold while others pushed back, keen to stay alive. Rane knew at some point the spell would break when they realised he could be overwhelmed by sheer weight of numbers. He had to get out of the square. A glance told him the exit was only ten yards away but it felt ten times further than that.
A flash of silver caught his eye as a man lunged in with a butcher's knife. He stepped back out of the man's path and elbowed the man in the jaw. The blade skittered across the pavement as the man went down, but the signal had been given and the mob threw itself at him once more.
Rane sheathed Kibon — feeling a stab of pain as he did so, but he'd not give it any more lives that day — and then wielded it like a stick; hitting, poking, prodding, blocking, keeping it in constant motion as he kept his attackers at bay, fighting the urge to slaughter them all.
Arms seized him around the neck so he smashed the back of his head into the assailant's face. A woman tried to claw his face. Rane stabbed his fingers into her solar plexus, paralysing her lungs, while sweeping the legs away from a man to his right.
Whistles sounded over the frenzy. The city guards were on their way. Guards meant swords, and maybe guns, and neither were things he wanted to deal with. He whirled Kibon in front of him, cracking skulls and breaking bones as he drove the crowd back, wasting no more time. The voice told him to draw steel and solve the matter with blood. No, no, no, he told himself even as his hands went to unleash Kibon once more. The blade was half out when the barrier of bodies around him fell away, opening up the road back to the Queen's Bridge.
Rane didn't need a second invitation. He sprinted down the street, pursued by people and shouts alike, but his legs were powered by Kibon's magic and none could match him for speed. A guard appeared from a side street, but he wasn’t expecting Rane. He barely broke stride to knock the guard from his path.
He raced along, cutting this way and that, through throngs of people all looking back the way he'd come, trying to see what the commotion was. Whistles and bells sounded behind him, raising the alarm.
He turned right at the next junction. He had to disappear.
He cut down an alley, between a baker's and a hardware store, barely wider than his shoulders. He hoped it was a shortcut back to the bridge.
"Oi!" The shout came from behind him. He looked back to see three guards in pursuit.
The alley wasn't more than two feet wide and filled with rotting food, human waste and other refuse. He ran faster, opening up a gap between himself and the guards. He wasn't going to be captured.
He vaulted over one fence, and carried on, almost bouncing off the walls in his haste, but he ran like a mouse down a trap. He didn't know where the alley opened out, and an army could just be waiting at the exit to capture him.
The wall on one side of the alley was six foot high. He reached up with one hand and hauled himself on to the top of it. He sprinted along the wall until he could jump up onto a low roof opposite. From there he bounced from roof to ledge to balcony to roof till he was high up above any pursuit. He jumped over the narrow streets, taking random turns till it was impossible for anyone to still be on his tail.
Satisfied he was safe, he settled down into a deep nook under a roof awning and watched the hue and cry out to find him. Alarm bells rang across the city, warning the whole city he was on the loose, but no one looked up. He watched the city guards, no more than little red dots, flit this way and that, frantic to find him. They had no hope.
Rane buried his head in his hands. By the Gods, what had he become? He'd known he was dangerous, of the urges that ran through him, but would never have thought he could murder so many with such casual thought. No, it was worse than that, he'd killed with utter pleasure. What had happened to the man who'd sworn an oath to protect and serve those weaker than himself? Kara would’ve been horrified at his actions. What happened to the man she'd loved? Who was he truly?
His whole body shook at the thought of those he'd just killed. Some hero he was, some Legionnaire. How could he have failed his oath like that? Yes, his friends were being tortured but were those he killed really his enemies? He'd made orphans and widows that day. If anyone deserved to be hanged, it was him. He used to be a better man than that.
Shame quenched the fury in him and killed the urge for vengeance that had driven him since Kara's death. Better he'd let the bounty hunters take him. The people in the square would be alive still. Kara too, his child growing within her.
He was the one who deserved to die. Not them, not her.
He unsheathed Kibon an inch. Enough to see his reflection in the perfect steel. Enough to barely recognise the man who stared back at him. Who had he become?
No, the voice whispered in his head. They were watching Legionnaires be murdered, cheering the priest on, baying for blood. They would’ve killed him too if he'd let them. He'd acted in self-defence. The world had declared war on the Legion — and every war had casualties.
He sheathed Kibon once more, wishing the world wasn’t what it was.
One thing was clear, there was nothing for him in Candra. If Jefferson was alive, he wasn’t here. As soon as night fell, he would leave the city and head to Rooktown. Find Marcus. Find some hope there.
Part II
9
At first Rooktown was nothing more than a small shadow in the distance, sat amongst vast fields of brown grass, a single gravel highway leading to it. Mist hugged the ground and slate grey skies promised rain sooner rather than later.
A mixture of emotions played within Rane as he drew nearer to the city. The last time he'd visited, he’d been with Marcus on their way home from the war. When he met Kara for the first time. He rubbed her locket between his finger and thumb. What a woman she’d been.
They'd come back looking for Marcus’ family, only to find the Rastaks had all but destroyed the place. Marcus' father and mother had died in the first wave of the invasion. Murdered because they were too old to be of any use to the Rastaks as slaves, and not rich enough to buy their safety. A common enough occurrence during the war.
Kara had survived though. Done more than that in fact. She'd led the resistance against the Heras worshippers. Fought as hard as any soldier Rane had known.
Rane could make out the city wall — or what was left of it. More a skeleton of a wall made up of burnt and broken timber. It not changed since his last visit — just another reminder of the damage done.
The entrance to the city was as in a bad a state as the walls. There was no gate or guard, just a larger hole in the wall to walk through. It was a surprise to see. Marcus had stayed in Rooktown after Rane had married Kara and taken a job up with Lord Haversham, a distant relation to the Queen, so he could help rebuild the place. It didn't look like much had been accomplished in the two years since. The city was still a shadow of what it once was.
It was hard to believe that the city was the seat of government for the Western counties of Ascalonia and the last major city before the Balrussian border. Rane walked down empty, narrow streets, watched only by the odd stray dog. There was no other sign of life. Houses and business were boarded up, covered with wards calling on all Odason to offer His protection or just abandoned with doors and windows wide open. Garbage filled the streets and the air stunk with the stench of rot.
If anything, the city was in a worse state than it had been after the war. At least, back then there had been a sense of hope, of starting over. There’d been survivors. Now, Rooktown was a corpse left to rot.
The only new additions to the city were the all-too familiar wanted posters, for any Legionnaire alive or dead, plastered on various walls. So someone had been in Rooktown recently. Rane only hoped they'd not found Marcus.
He reached the market square in the centre of town twenty minutes later. A
t one end had once stood one of the country's biggest temples Odason, but the Rastaks had been quick to destroy it. Some work had begun on restoring the remains but now it looked like it had been left to rot like the rest of the city. Dirt strewn steps led up to doors left open, and the sky shone through the half-built roof. Even the customary statues of Odason's guardian angels lay smashed in half.
A fountain sat in the heart of the square, filled with a mix of rainwater and trash. A few abandoned stalls littered the edges of the square. One still had produce in the final stages of decay scattered across it but the rest hadn't seen wares in a long time.
Rane stood, listening to the silence fill a space designed to be full of life, remembering a beautiful afternoon with Kara, watching the world walk by as the sun warmed the square.
By the Gods, what had happened to Rooktown? He could feel that niggle at the back of his mind, telling him to draw Kibon, but he couldn’t see any threat. It was probably the silence unnerving him but still his unease only grew.
He headed down a side street, following his memories. He passed a baker's shop, with its broken door and shattered windows, where they'd shared pastries, and retraced their steps down lanes and alleyways where they'd talked and laughed and fell in love. Each step hurt him again and again.
Suddenly, so faint he almost missed it, Rane heard the murmur of voices. Somewhere there were people left in the city. People who had answers.
He followed the sounds, down one street and along the next, picking up his pace as the noise grew clearer. Turning a corner, he spotted light leaking out of the shuttered windows of an inn. The Hare and Hound was carved into a battered sign that hung above the door. Inside, people were engaged in heavy debate. Some spoke in anger, while others were clearly scared.
Rane paused for a moment by the door; only too aware he was a wanted man with a price on his head. The last time he'd allowed himself to be surrounded by people, blood had flowed. The desire to go in armed and ready for trouble was overwhelming and it took everything he had not to draw Kibon. What was wrong with him when his first instinct was to go in sword swinging?
He pushed the door open and found the place full to bursting. There must have been over a hundred people crammed inside. All heads turned in Rane's direction as he entered and the conversation died.
He scanned the faces staring at him, looking for anyone he knew as whispers raced around the room. Fear filled eyes took in his sword. The fear level went up another notch in the room and he watched to see if anyone brave or stupid enough to attack. Let them try.
A woman's voice cut across the noise of the bar. "Quiet!"
Silence fell across the room. Bodies parted to reveal an old woman standing in the middle of the inn. Rane recognised her straight away. Kaitlyn, one of the city elders. Her hair matched the steel in her eyes as she stood full of pride and defiance. She wore a jacket, patched and mended over many a time, the right arm of which was pinned to the jacket breast because a Rastak had taken her limb in the war.
"Ma'am." Rane walked over and bowed his head in greeting. "It's good to see you again."
"I know you." Kaitlyn squinted at Rane before recognition flashed across her face. "You married Kara Shaw two years ago. Nathaniel Rane, isn't it?"
"That's right, Ma'am."
"She not with you?"
"No ma'am. My wife was murdered a week ago."
Kaitlyn sighed at the news. "I'm sorry for the loss of your wife. She was well-loved around these parts and many of the people in this room owe her their lives or the lives of their kin."
"I'm actually here looking for her brother, Marcus Shaw. He was working with Lord Haversham last I heard."
"I've not seen him since the posters went up. Disappeared that very day. I can't blame him for that."
Rane looked around the room. "Do you mind telling me what's going on? The town's looking worse than it did after the war."
The woman sighed, looking all her years. "There's a bit of a difference of opinion on the subject, but I think you'll find the general consensus is that we have a demon in Rooktown."
"A demon?" said Rane, stepping forward. "A Jotnar?"
"No. No." Kaitlyn waved at her missing arm. "We saw enough of those during the occupation to know what they're like. What we have here is... different but just as deadly."
"Why are you telling him?" shouted a man from the crowd. "I know him. He's wanted, a traitor. A fucking Legionnaire."
"Quiet," snapped Kaitlyn, fixing a hard stare in the direction of the heckler. "I know this man too — and what he was. And he might be what we need."
"I can assure you I'm no traitor," said Rane, speaking to the room. "Despite what the posters say." He looked each and every one in the eye. "I am... or rather was… a Legionnaire. That’s true. My name’s Nathaniel Rane. I’ve no idea why a bounty has been placed on my head. My whole life has been dedicated to serving and protecting the people of the five nations. If you want my help with this... demon, you can have it."
The room seemed to settle at that but Rane kept an eye out for anyone with gold on their mind. "When did the demon turn up?"
"Old Mrs Davis was the first one to die a couple of months back. No one had seen her for a while, and her neighbour called to see her if she was ill. Found her cut up and half-eaten. Since then someone's gone missing nearly every night. The people in this room are all that are left of Rooktown. Everyone else is either dead or they've run far from here."
A man stood up near the bar, broad of shoulder and wearing a smith's apron. "A group went up to see Haversham, see if he could help us, but they never returned."
"The bastard collaborator would never have lifted a finger for us anyway," said another.
"Haversham was rumoured to have helped the Rastaks during the occupation in order to keep his family and his manor house safe," added Kaitlyn. "Nothing was proved."
"He bloody well consorted with enough fuckin’ demons back in the war," continued the smith. “I tell you he’s got this one living up there now.”
“Only place it could be hiding,” shouted another. “I say we go burn the manor down before we think about running.”
“And you’ll end up dead like the rest of ‘em,” snapped a woman next to the smith.
"We hired some men who fancied themselves demon killers," continued Kaitlyn. "But the monster either got them too or they ran off with our money, because we’ve not seen them since."
"Has anyone seen the demon?" asked Rane.
There was a lot of shaking of heads in the room. Only Kaitlyn spoke up. "It's too quick, too quiet, too clever. It avoids our traps and our hunting parties don't see a thing. Only the bodies are left as proof that it even exists. And it won't be long before we run out of those."
"That's what we were discussing," said the smith. "Whether to abandon Rooktown before we're all dead or try to kill it somehow."
The room erupted in shouts and argument once more as if Rane wasn't there. He watched as Kaitlyn called for calm but she may as well have asked for the world to stop turning. What type of demon could have inflicted such misery on them?
There was one way to find out. A true need for Kibon's might. This was why he’d joined the Legion — to help people. It was a way to prove he was still that person and not the monster he could so easily be. He placed his hand on Kaitlyn's shoulder. "I’ll find the demon and kill it — if I can."
Kaitlyn smiled. "Thank you Nathaniel. Thank you.” She paused for a moment. “You know, the smith’s not wrong. You should start at the manor house."
10
He saw the crows first, before he saw the house. Circling overhead, cawing in excitement to each other, dipping and swooping. Rane hated the vile creatures. They'd dogged every failure, every defeat, the Legion had suffered during the war. Picking scraps off the fallen. Feeding on his friends.
The smell came next. A sharpness drifting on the wind. Most people wouldn't notice, not when it was still so faint, but a veteran would know it anywhere.
His lip twisted in disgust.
It had been everywhere during the war, clinging to clothes and getting stuck in the nostrils and at the back of throats, tainting everything until it seemed to be the only smell left in the world, before no one noticed it anymore. To experience it once again made him sick to his stomach because he knew without doubt what waited at the mansion.
Death. Rot. Decay.
As he walked down the twisting lane, a cold light broke through the edge of the woods. The call of the crows grew louder and the stench grew stronger. It turned Rane's stomach.
When the trees fell back, a five-foot wall was revealed with metal gates to protect Haversham's mansion from the rest of the world. Unlike the walls around Rooktown, these were in good repair, chained and locked to keep unwanted guests out. Rane headed straight to the gate. One kick was enough to snap the chain with a clang and he pushed them open.
The mansion's once immaculate gardens had been left to grow wild, running riot on either side of the path to Haversham's mansion. Only the Gods knew when there had been someone to care for them. Above, the crows protested the intrusion, resenting the disruption to their meal. They perched on walls and ledges, screaming at Rane as the Legionnaire made his way to the house.
Even from half a mile away, the building was impressive. Rane couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a building with so many windows. If each one had its own room behind it, there was enough space to house an army.
It wasn't long before he found the first dead body. White flesh poked out from the long green grass, revealing the remains of a young boy, no more than seven years old. The crows had done their work but a much larger beast had feasted on the child before the birds. Rane bent down and inspected the corpse. The child's neck had been broken. He only hoped he'd died before the creature fed. No one deserved to die like that, especially not one so young.
